


The Discerning Black Swan

by LWTIS



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Extended Ornithology Metaphors, Getting Together, M/M, Pining, Swans, The Ineffable Domesticity of St James Park Pre-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-24 02:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19714624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LWTIS/pseuds/LWTIS
Summary: “Crowley, you can’t steal a swan from the park.”“I concur, angel. I have quick hands and very deep pockets.”





	The Discerning Black Swan

They first notice the swans in 1995.

It's a June afternoon, a few weeks after spring tentatively dipped its toes into summer. The dewy smell of blossoming trees hangs heavy in the air, much to the distress of anyone with seasonal allergies. On the bench that’s been silently designated as ‘theirs’ decades ago, Aziraphale leans back with a satisfied sigh.

“Those tarts were nice, weren’t they?” he says, smiling at the memory. “Not _quite_ as good as the ones we had in that delightful little French village, but - “

His companion sighs with the timbre of someone who’s had this conversation before. “If you keep comparing _every_ bakery to that one, you’re never going to be happy again.” 

“Easier said than - oh! Would you look at that!”

Following the enthused pointing, Crowley glances towards the lake. Navigating between the hungry hordes of ducks and seagulls is a family of swans. Unlike the regular residents of the park, the adults sport red beaks and inky-black feathers. Their (rather demonic) eyes are fixed on their little ones, recently hatched and very excited by their predicament. 

“That’s new.” Crowley murmurs, gaze fixed on the chick closest to them. It squawks, trying to imitate its parents’ every move. It’s disgustingly adorable. “Did they fly over from Regents Park, or are they a fancy new purchase?” 

“A lovely addition either way.” Aziraphale says. He drums his fingers on his leg, expression morphing into something thoughtful. Crowley suspects their next lunch is going to be filled with a plethora of swan trivia

“Sure.” he replies. “Maybe they can play chess amongst themselves in a few decades’ time.” 

\---

Baby swans, Aziraphale tells him over sashimi and teriyaki salmon, are called cygnets and are considered mature at four years old. Additionally, black swans originated from Australia. 

“Bit cheeky for the English to nick them then, don’t you think?” Crowley points out, promptly stealing all of Aziraphale’s wasabi. "Of all people."

“Oh hush, you.” 

\---

“They are so _ugly_.”

Aziraphale clicks his tongue. “Don’t be mean.” With a careful flick of the wrist, he tosses his piece of bread. It flies in a perfect arc, landing in a cygnet’s gaping beak. “They can hardly help it.” 

“Like little mothballs playing around pots of ink.” Crowley insists. His bread lands in the midst of a dozen ducks and geese, inciting a squawking riot. “Sticking their beaks in it and refusing to bathe.”

“Is this your new hobby then? Choosing a different bird to make fun of each week?” Despite his disapproving tone, Crowley thinks he sees the angel’s mouth twitch. “Pelicans last week, swans today…” 

“Oh come _on_. Even _you_ struggled to come up with nice things to say about baby pelicans.”

Aziraphale’s weak defence gets drowned out by the shrill screech of the nearby children, all clutching half-melted ice lollies. A sudden heat wave had flooded London in the morning, making the demon’s usual blazer just a little too uncomfortable for wear. (He makes no move to remove it though, on principle.) 

“I could have done without all the comparisons to Sandalphon when it came to baby pelicans.” he hears the angel grumble. The next piece of bread bounces off an unfortunate seagull’s head, prompting a squawk. “Now I cannot unsee it, for the life of me.” 

\---

Time passes. 

The heat goes as quickly as it came, leaving the good people of London clad in winter coats in the middle of July. The cygnets grow bigger every day, happily frolicking in their new-found popularity with the guests of the park. Despite his best efforts, Crowley finds himself singled out by the stumpiest offspring - who greets him with impatient squawks and favours his Tesco sandwich crusts above all else. (Aziraphale, the darling of the rest of the birds with his fancy Waitrose assortments, finds this all very funny.)   
Humanity ushers in the new millennium. To the dismay of some, the world doesn’t end at the stroke of midnight. 

And then Crowley gets handed a wicker basket containing the Antichrist. 

\---

In hindsight, he thinks he handled it pretty well. Circumstances considered.

\---

“Your swan’s been busy.” 

They’re in the park again. The wind tugs at their clothes with a chilly sense of urgency, prompting an occasional shiver. Unbothered, the birds waddle closer to their feet.  
The Antichrist’s fifth birthday is swiftly approaching. The ad seeking a nanny crinkles in his pocket with every movement. 

“ _My_ swan?” Crowley echoes, raising an eyebrow. “Last I checked, all swans were the property of Her Majesty.” They both watch the swan try to chase off a bothersome wigeon, with mixed results. “There’s a thought, though…” 

The disapproving glance Aziraphale throws his way is marvellously exasperated. “Don’t even think about it.”

“He’s grown into a _rather_ fetching one, hasn’t he?” 

“Crowley, you can’t steal a swan from the park.” 

“I concur, angel. I have quick hands and _very_ deep pockets.”

“Where would you even keep it? Swans hardly belong in Mayfair apartments.”

An outrageous claim, considering how well he would match the colour scheme of Crowley’s flat. Idly, he imagines the swan sauntering across his carpet, crimson beak pecking at the low-hanging plants. “I’d only take it as far as the kitchen. Her Majesty’s prized birds are supposed to be quite the treat, aren’t they?” 

Hungry curiosity flickers across the angel’s face before he catches himself, tone firm. _“No."_

“You,” Crowley declares, “are no fun.” 

\---

“Goodness, they are loud today.” 

It’s summer again, in all its London-flavoured, indecisive glory. Every patch of grass is covered in slumbering students or besotted lovers, lost to the world around them. Occasionally, children will sprint down the pathways, followed by their respective harried parent. 

“It’s school holidays.” the demon notes. “Again. Wasn’t it _just_ half term?”

“I meant the birds.” Aziraphale says. He casts a subtle glance towards Crowley’s bag of Maltesers, still untouched.

“Ah. It’s mating season for them, isn’t it?” Crowley says. He lets Aziraphale steal a handful of his chocolates, turning towards the water. “It’s going to be a very educational few months for all the children.” 

He’d consider bringing Warlock along next week, but he already knows it’d be an unfruitful endeavour. The Lord-of-Darkness-to-be would be far more interested in using the smitten birds as live targets for his plastic guns.

As if on cue, a very familiar swan saunters into their line of sight. Inky feathers preened and long neck extended, he lets out an enthused song of chirps. With sauntering steps that look disturbingly familiar, he makes his way towards an intrigued-looking white swan. She allows him close enough for their feathers to brush before waddling away, returning his chirps. The black swan bobs his head in response, preening efforts redoubled. 

Speak of the devil. Their stumpy little cygnet, all grown up.   
Suddenly, Crowley feels very, _very old._

“Poor thing.” Aziraphale hums, snapping him out of his reverie. “He doesn’t even realise it’s a lost cause.” 

“...lost cause?”

“Well, of course.” The angel gives him a strange look. “He’s trying to court a mute swan.” 

“...an unorthodox choice, perhaps. But lost cause?” 

“However fetching she might find him, they’re still different species at the end of the day. He is doomed to fail from the get-go.” 

There’s no disdain colouring his voice, no frown marring his face. Just unshakeable certainty, mixed in with a soft kind of pity for the plight of one stupid, deluded bird.   
Somehow, the words scrape against Crowley’s bones, white-hot and unbearably cruel. 

\---

“You’re wasting your time.” Crowley tells the swan on Thursday. Tourists have replaced the students on the grass, their complaints carrying loudly across the water. Aziraphale is crouched next to a talkative lady, discussing the day’s crossword. Crowley would bet a pretty penny that by the time they say goodbye, her arthritis will be a thing of the past. 

The swan spares him a glance, deftly catching the lettuce chunk thrown his way. The change in snacks was upon Aziraphale’s insistence, concerned over the latest flurry of news and articles claiming bread was harmful to both waterfowl and the environment. The demon hadn’t been convinced - but hey, if a damp Romaine made the angel happy, it was easier than campaigning for the bread. 

“You’ve got thousands of years of biology working against you.” Crowley mutters, chucking another leaf his way. The words taste surprisingly bitter in his mouth. “She’s never going to choose you.” 

He receives a flutter of wings before the swan is darting across the water with reckless abandon. Crowley catches a glimpse of a white wing in the distance before a hand presses against his shoulder. 

“All done.” Aziraphale announces cheerfully. He glances over his shoulder at the ever-growing congregation. “I must say, this kind of crowd on a weekday is a little surprising.” 

Somehow, his touch burns through all the layers of leather and cotton with ease. “Oh, I hear there’s a signal failure on the Jubilee Line. Again.” 

“Your personal vendetta against Queen’s Park station is getting ridiculous at this point, Crowley.”

\---

“I’m serious, you know.” 

It’s Saturday, humid and overcast. People huddle under the shade, nursing hangovers in silent, pained solidarity. Aziraphale stands a stone’s throw away, painstakingly counting out pennies to the bored-looking ice-cream vendor.

Crowley gets an impatient squawk for his troubles, the swan's red beak snapping noisily. He resists the urge to reach out and tap a finger against the tip. “You know she only associates with you because you’re both swans in a park full of pelicans and ducks, right?” 

A crude sentiment, perhaps, a true one. You couldn’t live decades in a small, enclosed area without saying hello to your neighbours at least once. Even when you were a bird of fairly limited brain functions and...well, living in England, where avoiding conversation with your neighbours was practical a national sport.

 _Different species_ , Aziraphale had said, and he had been right. Same genetic stock, aesthetically similar but very different at the end of the day.   
Fundamentally incompatible. 

The couple to his right give him an odd glance before edging away. A nearby puppy tugs on its owners leash, urging her in the other direction. Crowley pays them little mind, moving to rest his chin in his palm. 

“If she had a choice, she wouldn’t give you the time of the day.” 

\---

“You know, if it’s eggs you’re after, there are other swans like you.” 

The park is quiet on the Monday morning. The air is bleary and Crowley’s eyes are dry behind his sunglasses. Last night marked his fifth consecutive sleepless night, and it’s starting to take its toll.   
Ironic, really. That’s what he gets for spoiling his earthly vessel with memory foam mattresses and regular naps.  
The swan glances up, still busy grooming his wing. In preparation for another day of courting, no doubt. Dragging a hand over his jacket - immaculately distressed and specifically picked for the day’s lunch meeting - the demon bites back a frustrated noise.

“You don’t have to torture yourself like this.”

It probably speaks volumes about his mental state, but Crowley could swear the look the swan throws his way is deadly offended.   
_How dare you,_ he seemed to say, screech ear-shattering as his wings splash against the water furiously. _It is nothing so base. It’s love._

Pain throbs behind his eyes, the beginnings of a headache taking root. With a groan, the demon tips his head into waiting hands.   
Damn Aziraphale for being late. Shouldn’t he know not to leave Crowley lingering by his lonesome for too long, lest his mind wanders down dangerous paths of ornithology metaphors?

\---

It rains on Tuesday.

A drizzle sprinkles over the park before it starts in earnest, fat drops rolling off the leaves with acrobatic grace. There’s a flurry of swearing and exclamations as people rush towards the cafe, newspapers and hoods tugged above their heads.  
Hands in his pockets, Crowley stares out at the water, unfocused and unseeing. Idly, he entertains the notion of searching for the swan - then tossing him in the backseat of the Bentley and making the drive to Regents Park. Releasing the bird where he knows other black swans mill, far away from the tempting soft presence of Her Majesty’s prized mute swan.  
It seemed easier than continue watching the doomed display. 

“What’s got you so deep in thought?”

Warmth rushes through him. The water swiftly slides off his jacket and out of his hair, leaving him cosy and dry. When Crowley turns around, Aziraphale’s smile is a lot closer than expected. 

“Stuff.” the demon says, eloquently. A glance upwards reveals a white umbrella, elegant handle clutched in the angel’s hand. 

“Must be some _stuff_.” Aziraphale replies, tone edging into sardonic. He steps closer, shoulders a mere inch away from brushing together. “For you not to notice the rain.” 

“Positively demonic stuff.” Crowley agrees, a little distracted. There are memories clawing at his consciousness - the sound of distant thunder in his ears and a whisper of white feathers against his hair.

The damp earth carried the same scent back then too. 

A smile of sorts curls around his lips, invisible fingers around his lungs making breathing a bit of a chore. “You seem to have a penchant for this, angel.” With a motion engineered to careless perfection, he points to the umbrella. 

Aziraphale blinks, following his gaze. The smile creeps onto his face with devastating ease. 

“So it seems.” 

\---

And then, things get rather hectic, and all non-Apocalypse related matters are promptly shoved onto the backburner until further notice. 

\---

(In theory, anyways.) 

\---

“Well, that was a _thing_.” 

The radio chimes with the evening news as Crowley slides back into the driver’s seat. The car purrs under his hands, smoothly avoiding a group of drunk girls stumbling across the road. There’s an itch under his skin that recoils at the thought of heading to his apartment - not yet, _not yet_ \- so when the road splits into a junction, he takes the wrong turn.  
The lights cascade across the plush interior, dipping into the indent Aziraphale’s body left on the passenger seat. The faint scent of vanilla and cologne - _barber’s recommendation_ \- still lingers, unhelpfully mingling into every deep breath.

Aziraphale’s relationship with the Bentley was a complicated one - what, with the angel’s constant ill-ease with the speed, the music, the _bebopifiction_ of every classical tape he’d gifted Crowley over the years. And yet, he never insisted on taking the tube or train unless the pretence of professionalism was required.   
(He fits with the interior perfectly, a white-and-cream contrast to the black leather upholstery, agitated hands curling over the yellowed map unearthed from the glove department. _You are hereby banned from giving directions_ , Crowley would swear after every convoluted detour the angel sent him on - a promise he could keep for sixteen minutes the most.)

The lights turn yellow. Some impatient wanker to his right leans on the horn. 

_There’s a very peculiar feeling to this whole area._ Aziraphale had said earlier, eyes wide with wonder. _I’m astonished you can’t feel it._   
Crowley never thought he’d ever be grateful for a collision involving his precious car and a bicycle. As annoying as the damage - and the detour - had been, it did derail the conversation from morphing into another discussion about the details and merits of angelic love.

The conversation plays out in his mind, against his will and better judgement. His theoretical angel states his favourite little facts, tone soft with reverence. Crowley knows Aziraphale doesn’t mean to come across as condescending and frustratingly obtuse, but oh, does he succeed each time.   
Crowley also knows he shouldn’t spare this topic any more thought than he already has. Not exactly unexpected of an angel to be so preoccupied with something he was always _meant_ to be preoccupied by, on the account of...well, being an angel. _Creatures made of love,_ as the humans liked to gush. The demon didn’t know who in Heaven came up with the concept, but as far as poetic propaganda went, it was pure evil genius.   
(The funny thing was - _funny,_ _absolutely hysterically so_ \- that when one spared a glance Aziraphale’s way, the whole pretentious, soppy concept made sense. Doubly-so if one was also acquainted with other angels - undeniable dedications to goodness in cold, corporate packaging.)

Three bikes slide in front of him, the street’s light dripping off the scratched paint. One of them takes the opportunity to snap a selfie. 

_But what, in that case,_ Crowley finds himself asking his hypothetical companion, swiftly veering off-script, _of the Fallen? What happens to that all-encompassing love, the very building blocks of an angel, when they hurtle down from the Heavens and land in a pool of boiling sulphur?  
_

(He really should know better, after six thousand years, to ask questions. Even when he is sure no one is listening.)

Mind-Aziraphale gives him a strange look, with the wide-eyes that are prone to turning a shade uncomfortable. _It’s taken from them, I suppose,_ he would perhaps say. _Stripped alongside God’s grace._  
The demon finds himself strangely agitated with Aziraphle’s hypothetical answer, mouth pressing into a thin line. _Think about it,_ he’d like to insist (maybe), a touch louder than was appropriate for a conversation of this kind.   
_How exactly would you like me to think about it?_ Aziraphale would reply (perhaps). _There’s not many ways around the differences between an angel and a demon, after all._

In the distance, a car alarm starts ringing. With a weary sigh, Crowley turns the radio up until the seat vibrates with the bass and his ears start hurting. 

\---

If there’s one thing that any immortal - no matter how old - finds hard to swallow, it’s the sudden confrontation of a lack of time. 

“You can’t leave, Crowley!” Aziraphale cries. The sun is setting the sky alight around them. It’s almost tomorrow, and they’re running out of time, options and patience.

“There isn’t anywhere to go.” 

_I know,_ he wants to shout, throat burning as the words scrape against his larynx with a familiar sort of desperation. _I know, but shouldn’t we at least try, damn it?_

\---

 _“But if Hell finds out, they won’t just be angry.”_ the angel had once said to him, in protest. Above the ridiculous ruffled collar, his eyes were wide with concern. _“They’ll destroy you.”_

 _“Nobody ever has to know.”_ Crowley had replied, with all the confidence of three thousand years’ worth of knowledge on Hell’s bureaucracy. With that amount of backlog, no one would ever double-check. Even if things went astray, it’s very unlikely they would ever find out. 

\---

They find out, of course.

\---

_“I’m going home, angel! I’m getting my stuff and leaving. And when I’m off in the stars, I won’t - even - think about you!”_

The taste of tar still lingers on his tongue as the Bentley swivels clear out of Soho, heavy and bitter. Rubber screeches against tarmac, his fingernails digging grooves into the steering wheel. Through the haze of fury and impending panic, a single phrase keeps circling his scattered thoughts, stuck on loop. 

_I forgive you._

The anger crumbles with his shaky turn onto Regent Street, cold numbness seeping in its place. When the lights prompt him to step on the break, he remembers to take a breath. 

He really should have known better. After six thousand years, he should have _known better_ than to try and rush Aziraphale. It would be a challenge to find a more stubborn creature in all celestial plains, and Satan knows Crowley works with some worthy candidates.   
What he _does_ know better - after six thousand years - is to assume a plea could sway the Almighty. What’s the request of a single Principality to someone who threw their own child to the wolves in the name of The Great Plan? 

_Crowley, you’re being ridiculous._

There’s a sharp shriek of a horn behind him. Unprompted, the Bentley rolls forwards without his input. 

_I forgive you._

His own promise echoes in his ear, and Crowley has to bite back a laugh.   
The trouble with immortality - with having six thousand years under your belt and counting - is that it was easy to fall into routines. How many times has he made the same promise, silent and aloud? How many times had he resolved - swore - that he would walk away? Not away _away_ \- just out of sight. Just out of reach. Just far enough for the radiant light to dim - far enough for Aziraphale’s words to become incomprehensible.   
Far enough to kindle the burning _want_ inside him to something - something a little more manageable. Just a little less - foolish. _Masochistic._

The steering wheel rolls under his fingers. The sunlight bounces off the chrome fence surrounding Berkeley Square. 

_You go too fast for me, Crowley._

It’s not that he doesn’t find comfort in their little self-constructed rituals. It’s familiar - _comforting_ \- to know all the steps to every little dance. (Proposal, suggestion, step one. Protest out of courtesy, step two. Jump and dip through the loopholes, _three, four, five_. Rinse, lather, repeat.) When the boundaries are already defined - already tested - it makes navigation a little easier.  
But the thing was, though - the trouble was - that the _want_ has been his companion for longer than he can recall. It lurks under his skin - sometimes lukewarm, sometimes burning but always constant. And now, he doesn’t quite know who he’d be without it.  
It’s fused into his bones, twisted along all capillaries. It twines through the tissue of his lungs, tingling in the tips of his fingers and forming a vice-grip around his heart. The want - the _longing_ \- and by extension, Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale is tied in with his crises and intrinsically intertwined with his revelations. He’s the shelter on the fringes of Eden, sleek feathers against the storm. He’s the presence by his elbow when rains drown out dying screams, when a son begs his Father to forgive his murderers. He’s the flicker of sunshine in a dreary century of revolution, the stubborn protector of gloomy plays and tragic authors. He is the catalyst to a hundred years’ slumber, and the reason to bound across consecrated ground without a second thought.   
Aziraphale lurks in the quiet spaces where the world is right, and lingers where it’s not - a glowing, warm, stable presence, just out of reach. He is propriety laced too-tight to contain, he is generosity varnished with pure indulgence. He is soft looks and petulant demands, unshakeable belief with a steel spine. He is the musty scent of a favoured story, the warm familiarity of a book read a thousand times. He is the ever-changing crescendo leaking from the Bentley’s speakers, leaving him both agitated and fighting back a smile.

Aziraphale is both home and a constant reminder of all the things he can't - _couldn’t_ \- have, simply by the nature of his being. 

With a soft rumble, the engine snuffs out. A quick glance confirms he’s arrived at his apartment.  
Amber eyes squeeze shut behind sunglasses as his forehead tips against the steering wheel. Three measured breaths later, Crowley's fingers grip the door handle with renewed determination. 

There was still much to be done before the end of the world. 

\---

(He had no idea.)

\---

Six thousand years ago, Aziraphale curled his wing above his head and Crowley thought, _In this Eden of new and perfect things, you are the most intriguing thing I’ve ever seen._

Six days ago, Aziraphale held an umbrella over his head and Crowley thought, _There is nothing I wouldn’t fight for you._

Which is probably why he finds himself heading straight back to Soho just thirty minutes later - hands still wet, limbs still twitching with adrenaline, Hastur’s scream still echoing in his ears - fingers jabbing the call button next to Aziraphale’s name.  
(Like a delusional swan, learning nothing from the past rejections, boldly strutting to have his heart torn open once again.) 

If he would have stopped to consider the absurdity of the situation - which he definitely didn’t - he might have surmised that at this point, he really didn't have anything to lose. 

\---

(He really, _really_ had no idea.)

\---

_“Well.”_

Cough echoing across the room, Aziraphale perches on the edge of the couch, hands folded neatly over his knees. “Quite a day, huh?”

Slumped against the doorframe, Crowley manages a grunt in response. His knees choose that exact moment to remind him just how monumentally _tired_ he is. The day had been peppered with so many flavours of emotional trauma, he doesn’t quite know where to _begin_ with processing it all. Part of him itches to slunk into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Another part wants nothing more than to drown any coherent thought in wine as soon as possible.  
(How terribly _British_ of him. He really has gone native.)

As if reading his mind, the angel coughs again.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a bottle on hand, by any chance?” he asks, shoulders sagging. “I think we could both use a drink after today.” 

Crowley doesn’t need to be told twice. A quick search and a hasty miracle later, he’s slumped on the couch, clutching a full wineglass just a little too tightly. Just a breath to the left, Aziraphale tips his own drink back in one go. 

“...where do you suppose we go from here, then?” The question is quiet, accompanied by an unfocused gaze and idly drumming fingers.

“No idea.” is the only answer Crowley can offer. The wine is sharp on his tongue, heady and too-sour. 

Aziraphale says something, but he cannot make out the shape of his words. The memory of smoke swells up in the back of his throat without warning, phantom heat flashing across his skin. The angel’s elbow brushes against Crowley’s arm - warm, soft, _solid_ \- and suddenly, it’s just _too much_.

“ - and it might - Crowley?”

He knows he’s gripping too hard - knuckles white and veins straining against the back of his hand - but he cannot bring himself to let go. A pulse beats against his fingers, unnaturally steady and _alive_. 

Aziraphale’s eyes widen before his expression goes terribly soft. Within a blink of an eye, his glass is set on the table and fingers are sliding atop of Crowley’s hand.

“I’m here.” he murmurs. “Right here. We’re both here.”

He sounds as if he’s talking to a skittish animal. Crowley wants to hit him and bury his face in the crook of his neck. 

“I thought I - “ The words feel wretched as they tumble free, as if the admission itself was a terribly secret destined to be swallowed forever. “I thought I lost you.”

The angel’s mouth twists with a terrible sort of guilt, gaze flickering to the side. “I assure you, it wasn’t on - well. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” 

_Don’t be stupid_ , he wants to reply, sharp and scathing. _Never do that again, promise me_ , he wants to demand. He settles for tightening his grip further on Aziraphale’s wrist.  
Well-manicured fingers skate over bony knuckles. From the corner of his eye, Crowley sees Aziraphale bite his lip. 

“Why didn’t you go to Alpha Centauri?” His tone is an odd mixture of curious and unsure. “You had every chance to.”

A stupid question, really. But it _has_ been an awfully long day. “I couldn’t. Not without you, angel.”

There’s a sharp sound of a shaky breath. And then Aziraphale’s shoulders are shaking, eyes squeezed shut as he bursts into laughter, belly-deep and terribly warm. His wrist twists in Crowley’s grip until the demon loosens his hold. Carefully, the angel weaves their fingers together.

“We truly are cut from the same cloth, my dear.”

It takes the tiniest shift for Crowley to tilt his head to the side. The skin against his own burns to the bone and he can only cling tighter. “Incompetent traitors?”

“Quite so.” Without hesitation, the angel shifts with him, head tipping to rest on the demon’s shoulder. “What a fine pair we make.”

\---

They take the scenic route to the Ritz on Sunday. 

The weather is picture-perfect, all crisp sunshine and storybook clouds. Cyclists weave their way through the chattering tourists, barely avoiding stray bags and tiny children. Surrounded by a crowd clutching cameras, a child inches closer to a watchful squirrel.  
It's irritatingly busy, mundane in its familiarity and Crowley is achingly grateful for it all.

“We could go for a walk on the riverside afterwards.” Aziraphale says, eyes already sparkling in anticipation. There’s a spring in his step - an obvious enjoyment at being back inside his own body, perhaps. “The sun is bound to attract a few interesting faces in the market.”

In the confines of his pocket, Crowley’s hand is still tingling from the swap. “If you want to poke around the dusty boxes of the Southbank booksellers, angel, just say so.“ 

A flutter of wings interrupt Aziraphale’s protests, prompting a glance towards the water. A pair of swans linger close to shore, half-obscured in the reed. Recognition clicks into place just as the birds lean towards each other. White feathers bump against black, slender necks forming the shape of a heart as the swans press their heads together. 

“Crowley?” comes the angel’s voice, as if through fog. “Are you coming?” 

The swans bob their heads, never breaking contact. Crowley watches them until the reed hides them out of sight. 

“Right behind you, angel.” 

\---

“Cheers.” 

The champagne bubbles glitter in the golden light of the chandelier, like misplaced gold dust. Aziraphale leans closer, still flushed from being labelled _a bit of a bastard_. There’s a smile curling around his mouth, an elation to his posture his earthly vessel can barely contain, a _glow_ flickering past the seams. 

_I love you_ , Crowley thinks, and it’s as easy as breathing itself. _You know that, right?_

“To the world.” he says instead, extending a hand. 

His angel’s glass meets his own with a delicate clink, blue eyes warm with undisguised adoration. 

_I know. I know, I know, I know._

  
“To the _world._ ”

\---

AN:

EDIT: The wonderful [HashtagLEH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HashtagLEH/pseuds/HashtagLEH) drew me some [lovely fanart of the swans!!](https://hashtagleh.tumblr.com/post/186577360579/ineffable-swans) It's soft and perfect and I cannot stop staring at it - thank you so much!! <3 

So. How about them Good Omens, huh.

I wasn't expecting to adore the TV show as much as I did, but here we are. The ineffable husbands have me in Despair - but they did kindly kick my continued writer's block in the face, for which I am grateful. 

I read [way too many articles](http://www.bbc.co.uk/earth/story/20141204-the-truth-about-swans) about swans whilst writing this. [They are surprisingly absorbing](http://www.theswansanctuary.org.uk/general-information/). Also, please [look at this and tell me this saunter doesn't look just a little familiar.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EBqEkkFhWjU) Also, [shout out to this wonderful post](https://genuinewarmdecentfeeling.tumblr.com/post/185945959498/the-black-swan-swam-to-join-that-lonely-white-swan) \- I saw it when I was halfway through writing this and it made me so, so very happy.

A thousand thanks to the lovely [StarsMadeInHeaven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsMadeinHeaven/pseuds/StarsMadeinHeaven) for lending me her eyes <3 You are wonderful and I appreciate you so, so very much.  
Hope you guys enjoyed - any thoughts are super appreciated <3 If you're on Tumblr, [hit me up! ](https://lwtis.tumblr.com/)


End file.
